Cover

Belle of the Ball

Joan Overfield

Belle of the Ball

Joan Overfield

This book is dedicated to the memory of Jerri Skeen, who fought the good fight with both courage and laughter. Please, if you do nothing else for your loved ones, have a yearly mammogram and examination. You mean more to the world than you may know.

Belle of the Ball

"You need to learn, Miss Portham, I am neither saint nor sinner, I am simply a man."

And I am a woman, she longed to scream, although shyness and fear held her silent. She bit her lip and reached deep down inside herself for the cool self-possession that had served her so well in the past.

"I am aware of that, my lord. And it is to that man I wish to make my apologies. I said terrible things to him and I am hoping he will find it in himself to forgive me. Do you think he will?"

"I am sure he will," he replied, not trusting himself to touch her again. . . .

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

About the Author

One

London, 1816

"If there is one thing in this life of which one may be reasonably certain," Mrs. Georgiana Larksdale began, turning a steely gaze upon the quiet young woman sitting opposite her, "it is not if a disaster may strike, but when."

Miss Arabelle Portham glanced up from the tract she'd been perusing, her delicate blond eyebrows gathering in a frown as she puzzled over the dramatic pronouncement. Only seconds before, her distant cousin had been discussing the latest fashions from Bond Street, and now she was uttering prophecies like some latter-day Cassandra. It made no sense, unless . . .

"Ah, I see," she said, her brow clearing as understanding dawned. "Your toe is paining you."

"It is my ankle," Georgiana corrected, lifting the hem of her gown and offering the affected limb for Belle's inspection. "The poor thing has been throbbing like a sore tooth, and I need not tell you what that portends."

Indeed she did not, Belle thought, fighting back a smile. For as long as she had known Georgiana (the sister-in-law of one of her numerous cousins), the older woman had held firm to her belief that her body was possessed of preternatural abilities, and a twinge could predict everything from a shower of rain to catastrophes of biblical proportions. She was especially fond of the catastrophes, and Belle knew there was nothing she liked more than when circumstances proved her correct.

"Perhaps it is only the gout," Belle suggested, fixing a pointed glance at the eclair in Georgiana's hand. "Dr. Philiby did warn you to avoid rich foods, did he not?"

"Dr. Philiby is an old fool," Georgiana muttered, although Belle noted she returned the custard-filled pastry to the tray. "I know the gout when I feel it, and this is quite different, I assure you. Disaster is poised to strike us, and I would be failing in my Christian duty if I did not warn you."

The smile that crept across Belle's face would have astounded those members of the ton who had dubbed her "The Golden Icicle." "As you say, Georgiana," she replied, her usually cool voice warm with tolerant affection. "You may consider me warned, and on my head shall the consequences rest."

Suspecting Belle was mocking her, Georgiana gave her a sharp look. "You may scoff if you like, young lady," she said, waggling an admonishing finger, "but if Napoleon had a toe like mine, he'd never have been fool enough to ride into Waterloo."

This was too much even for one with Belle's icy control, and she gave a delighted chuckle. "If Napoleon had your talent, Georgiana, we'd all be speaking French," she said, her golden-brown eyes dancing with laughter. "Now, stop being so gloomy and tell me what you think about my plans for Julia's coming out."

"Rather late to ask my opinion of anything, considering the chit is to make her bows tonight," Georgiana grumbled, abandoning discussion of her aching ankle with obvious reluctance. "Which reminds me, however were you able to secure a voucher for her? I would have thought Almack's to be quite above her touch."

"Above hers, perhaps, but not above mine." Belle's mild response gave no hint of the effort it had cost her to secure one of the highly prized vouchers. She'd pleaded, bargained, and schemed, but in the end she had triumphed over the patronesses' opposition. Whatever their original objections to admitting a young beauty "two steps removed from the shops" (the countess's exact words), they were too wily to let an heiress like Belle slip through their fingers. Her threat to avoid Almack's if Julia was not admitted had proven most effective, and Belle was cynically amused by the power her fortune commanded.

"Well, it certainly is kind of you to sponsor Julia," Georgiana said. "She is no closer a relation to you than I am."

"Her mother was very kind to mine after my father's death," Belle said, feeling a familiar stab of pain as she remembered those bleak days. "I don't know what would have become of us had Cousin Rachel not paid our passage back from Spain. Certainly no other member of the family seemed inclined to help."

Georgiana glanced away, her rouged cheeks suffusing with color, and Belle was instantly ashamed. Not of what she had said, but because she'd allowed her emotions to show. She'd spent years perfecting her mask of icy indifference, and it distressed her that she'd allowed it to slip even for a moment.

"Speaking of Julia's coming out, it is only six weeks until her ball," she said, hiding her distress behind brisk efficiency. "I'm sure I shall have everything in hand by then, but I would appreciate your going over the final plans. I've never hosted anything so grand, and I would hate to make a foolish mistake."

Before Georgiana could comment, the door to the library opened, and a petite beauty with blond curls floating about her face came scurrying into the room. "I am so sorry to be late, Aunt, Cousin," she said, favoring each lady in turn with an angelic smile, "but Madame Lorraine has only just this moment completed alterations on my ball gown. I trust I didn't keep you waiting overly long?"

"Not at all, dearest," Belle assured her, thinking the apology was a great deal like Julia herself. Sweet, sincere, and graceful. The chit would do well, she decided, with almost maternal pride.

"Madame Lorraine indeed," Georgiana retorted as Julia took her seat. "These mantua-makers like to give themselves French handles so that they can charge the highest prices for their goods, but don't think I don't recognize a Yorkshire accent when I hear it. Such duplicity would never have been allowed in my day, I can tell you."

Rather than arguing, Julia merely smiled, her expression sweet as she turned to Belle. "I wish to thank you for the diamonds, Cousin," she said, her thick lashes sweeping over her deep blue eyes. "Simon would insist I not accept them, but I know you only wanted to give me a memento of this evening."

"Thank you, Julia," Belle said, grateful her gesture had been accepted in the spirit in which it was intended. She knew only too well what it was like to be on the receiving end of grudging charity, and she wouldn't have wished to offend either Julia or her stiff-necked elder brother.

"Speaking of Simon, when might we expect to see the wretch?" Georgiana asked with feigned disinterest. "It is shocking, the way that lad ignores his family."

"He is in the country visiting one of his investments," Julia explained. "He is planning a visit to America to buy cotton for his mills, but he assures me he will be here for my coming-out ball."

Talk of the ball carried them comfortably through the next hour, and as Julia and Georgiana eagerly discussed the merits of various young men of the ton, Belle allowed her thoughts to drift to the coming evening. Despite her cool assurances to Georgiana, she couldn't help but feel some trepidation at the thought of introducing Julia to Society. The girl was so sweet, without an ounce of artifice to her, that Belle greatly feared she would be hurt by the sometimes cruel sophistication of the Polite World. Her own wealth could protect the girl only so far, and she knew there were those out there who would already be sharpening their claws in vicious anticipation.

For one moment she was wildly tempted to gather Julia up and rush back to her country estate and safety, but in the next moment her pride reasserted itself. Just let one of those cats attempt to scratch her ward, she vowed, her chin coming up with determination. Julia was her responsibility, and the first person foolish enough to threaten her would soon learn the folly of his actions. If the ton thought The Golden Icicle unable or unwilling to protect her own, they were about to learn otherwise.

"Almack's," Mr. Tobias Flanders mumbled in tones of painful resignation. "Really, sir, how can you be so cruel? You must know I'd rather be at m'own hanging than here in this wasp's nest. Couldn't you have come alone?"

"No, I could not," snapped Marcus Wainwright, the earl of Colford, his dark auburn eyebrows meeting over his nose as he cast his heir an impatient look. "Lady Bingington is going to be here tonight, and she hinted she wanted to meet you."

"Don't see why," Toby muttered, his bottom lip thrusting forward in a pout. "You're the one courting the lady, not I."

Marcus's gray eyes frosted over in annoyance. 'Toby, might I remind you of what will happen to Colford if I fail to make an advantageous marriage?" he warned, his voice dangerously soft. "I should think that as my heir, you'd want to do everything within your power to insure the estate remains intact."

Rather than bending to his cousin's command, Toby merely looked indifferent. "Wealth," he said in the bored accents of one who had known only privilege and comfort, "such a common preoccupation. As a poet, I am far above such considerations."

Marcus's lips tightened in fury, and he gave careful consideration to tossing his pompous cousin down the Grand Staircase. He could almost see Toby bouncing backside over breakfast down the steps, perhaps bowling over a couple of dowagers in the bargain . . . A half smile touched Marcus's mouth at the image, but in the next moment he was reluctantly rejecting it. The lady he was studiously courting was a pattern card of propriety, and he much doubted she would care for the scandal such an action would cause. Toby was safe . . . for now.

Thoughts of Charlotte led, as they always did, to thoughts of his estate, for without the one, there was no way he could hang on to the other. Colford was teetering on the edge of destruction, and Marcus knew everything hinged on the coming Season. He had to make a marriage of convenience, he reminded himself grimly; there was no other choice.

"Almack's." Julia's voice was full of wonder as she glanced wide-eyed about her. "Oh, Cousin, I can scarce believe I am here!"

Belle hid a smile at Julia's expression. "Believe it, my dear," she said, unfurling her fan with practiced grace. "Now, stop gawking, else you risk being taken for a provincial."

"But I am a provincial," Julia replied, although she did her best to follow Belle's instructions. "Simon said I should always remember where I came from, so that I won't forget where I must go."

"That sounds like something he would say," Belle agreed with reluctant admiration, "but I would ask you not to repeat it too loudly. I fear there are few here who share Simon's rather interesting view of the world."

The next several minutes were given over to introductions, and Belle was smugly proud of the interest Julia aroused amongst those present. Her fortune and beauty as well as her connection to Belle might have drawn them at first, but it was obvious it was Julia's kindness and charm that made them stay. Watching Julia dazzle one young man after the other, Belle felt a momentary pang of envy as she remembered her own introduction to Society.

Fear had left her so stiff and cold that she'd spent most of the evening in the corner, watching unhappily as others enjoyed themselves. She'd wanted more than anything to join them in their revelry, but years of guarding her emotions from her avaricious relations had left their mark. She could only stand in miserable silence, her face frozen in a haughty mask as her heart ached for an acceptance she could not find.

That night set the pattern for the rest of the Season, and the more people commented on her standoffish behavior, the more she withdrew into an icy shell. Balls and soirees became an agony to be endured until finally she surrendered, stoically accepting the role Society assigned her. By the time the odious earl of Colford christened her The Golden Icicle, her heart was already encased in a cage of frost.

The memory of that occasion still had the power to bring a flash of anger to her eyes. It had been at one of the last balls of the Season, and she'd fled out onto the balcony to escape the crowds and the appalling heat. She'd thought herself quite alone when she turned around to find Lord Colford watching her from the shadows. He'd been only a viscount then, although one would never have guessed it from his arrogance, and that arrogance had been much in evidence as he continued watching her. Finally he pushed himself away from the stone balustrade and advanced lazily toward her, his smile mocking as he gave a low bow.

" 'Well met by moonlight, proud Titania,' " he murmured, his gray eyes resting on her face. "Or should I say, proud Miss Portham? Although you do look so much like a fairy queen in that charming dress, I am sure you can forgive my confusion."

Her heart had raced at the sight of him, a fact she now blushed to recall, and her voice had been none too steady as she returned his greeting. "I thank you for the compliment, my lord, and I shall be sure to extend your appreciation to my modiste."

"You mean the cloth wasn't spun in moonlit glades by elves and sprites?" he drawled, the corners of his lips curving in a wry smile. "You disappoint me, ma'am. How sad to think such a lovely creation came from so prosaic a place as Madame DeClaire's on Bond Street."

That he was aware her gold and white silk gown had been made by Madame gave credence to the whispers she'd heard about his rakish ways, and she decided it might be prudent to return to the ballroom. She muttered a stiff excuse and made to brush past him, but instead of standing aside as a gentleman would have done, he stood his ground, his expression daring her to object.

"Sir, you are in my way," she informed him coolly, ignoring her heart hammering inside her chest. "I will thank you to step aside."

"Will you?" His eyes had glowed silver in the moonlight as he gazed down at her. "And what if I do not? Will you cast one of your spells and turn me into another Oberon?"

"Such a spell would seem superfluous, my lord, as you are already half an ass!" she snapped, and then flushed with mortification. She would have fled at that point but for the powerful hand that curled about her upper arm, staying her.

"One moment, my fairy queen." He laughed, easily controlling her efforts to free herself. "If you think I mean to allow you to leave after that, you are much mistaken. You have insulted me, my sweet, and now you must pay a forfeit."

Before she could scream, his mouth descended on hers, capturing her lips in a kiss of fiery passion. She'd been more furious than frightened at his audacity, sensing somehow that he would never really hurt her. But it was the hateful knowledge that she was actually enjoying the embrace that appalled her most, and the moment her lips were free, she brought her hand across his face in a stinging slap.

"How dare you!" she raged somewhat unoriginally, doing her best to control her agitated breathing. "If you ever touch me again, I vow I shall put a bullet through you!"

"You needn't have any worries on that score, ma'am," he responded sardonically, his hand resting on the red mark her blow had left. "A man would have to be mad to kiss an icicle . . . even a golden one. You have my word I shall keep my distance."

And so he had, she admitted, nodding to a casual acquaintance who was waving at her from across the room. In the eight or so years since that momentous night, she could count on one hand the times they'd exchanged more than a few minutes of brittle conversation. Unfortunately, since he was an intimate of Viscount St. Ives, and she was one of the viscountess's closest friends, she supposed that would change, and she steeled herself for the confrontations that were sure to come.

The next few hours passed pleasantly as Belle introduced Julia to the ton. In addition to the eligible men fluttering about her, she also made sure her pretty ward made the acquaintance of several young ladies her own age. She was especially pleased to see Julia strike up a friendship with Lady Katherine Cragswell, the daughter of an old friend. Kate was as good as she was sensible, and it was Belle's hope Julia would learn to emulate the other girl's exquisite manners.

In between keeping a protective eye on Julia and making sure Georgiana lacked for nothing, Belle visited with several of her friends from previous Seasons. But as much as she enjoyed seeing them, she couldn't help but miss her dear friend Phillipa Lambert, now the Viscountess St. Ives. Pip and her handsome husband, Alex, were still in the country at his estates, but the last letter Belle had had from Pip had hinted they would be coming to London for a visit. She was sharing this bit of news with one of her friends when the lady gave an unexpected giggle.

"It's true, then," she said, her muddy brown eyes sparkling with spite. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes!"

"Believed what?" Belle asked, frowning at Miriam's unseemly behavior. After last year's debacle when the entire ton was taking bets as to whether or not Pip and Alex would wed, she had grown overly cautious to gossip of any sort.

"That Lady Bingington has set her cap for the earl of Colford, of course." Miriam gave another high-pitched giggle. "Or rather, it is the other way around. Everyone knows that precious estate of his is all but bankrupt, and he must make a marriage of convenience if he hopes to save it."

Even though she considered the earl her enemy, Belle was not about to stand idly by while his good name was besmirched. Drawing herself up, she fixed Miriam with her haughtiest stare. "I should take care not to repeat such tattle, Miriam," she said coolly. "In the event it turns out to be a lie, you risk looking the fool."

"Belle!" Miriam exclaimed, her angular face turning an unbecoming shade of red. "I never thought to hear you speak so to me! I thought we were friends."

"And so we are," Belle replied, her voice not warming by a single degree. "But you must know I do not countenance gossip. It is ill bred in the extreme, and I for one do not choose to listen to it. In the future I would thank you to remember that."

"But you don't even like Colford!"

"Perhaps not," Belle said, inclining her head regally, "but I dislike more listening to his name being bandied about when he is not present to defend himself. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go and check on my cousin." And with that, she walked away, her back rigid with displeasure.

Across the room, Marcus watched the exchange with interest. He'd seen Miss Portham and her ward arrive several hours ago, and as usual, Miss Portham's stunning beauty had made his breath catch. Dressed in a gown of sapphire silk, her dark blond hair swept in a sophisticated chignon, she was a sight to give any man pause. She was standing off to one side, affording him a glimpse of her exquisite profile, and his eyes lingered on the curve of her high cheekbones and the tempting bow of her full lips.

A pity such loveliness was wrapped in impenetrable ice, he thought, recalling the one time he'd attempted to melt that ice and had all but been frozen to death for his pains. The thought of repeating the incident was tempting, and he knew a flash of disappointment that he would never have that chance. If all went as he planned, he would soon be a married man, and unlike his father, he had no intention of ever breaking his sacred vows.

"You are rather quiet this evening, my lord," Lady Charlotte Bingingham, the widow of the duke of Bingingham, observed softly, laying a solicitous hand on his arm. "Is everything all right?"

Marcus turned his back on Miss Portham, focusing his attention on Charlotte. "I was but thinking how depressingly young this year's crop of debs looks," he said, lowering his deep voice to its most attractive level. "The thought of dancing with one is almost indecent."

This was a sentiment that was music to Charlotte's thirty-one-year-old ears. "I can see your point, my lord," she replied, a pleased smile playing about her full lips. "I recall thinking much the same thing last year when George's youngest boy, Harry, was trotted out. I also recall uttering a silent prayer of relief that all of this is finally behind me. Being a widow does have its advantages, thank God."

Her candidness was one of the things Marcus most liked about Charlotte. Her marriage to a man almost thirty years her senior had been arranged, and she had never pretended otherwise. Even though it wasn't a love match, she had obviously liked and respected her elderly husband, and she'd done her best to be a stepmama to his already grown sons. She'd also been a faithful wife, something Marcus had taken discreet pains to learn. Desperate though he was to make a suitable marriage, he wasn't about to offer his name to a lady who would only shame it.

"Speaking of Harry, how is the lad doing?" he asked, knowing Charlotte was devoted to her stepsons. "Did he buy that bay he was considering?"

"No." Charlotte gave a warm chuckle. "I did as you suggested and mentioned how happy I was he was buying the animal so that I could borrow it. The notion of owning a horse his stepmama coveted was enough to put him off the nag altogether, thank heavens. He'd have broken his neck on the wretched beast inside of a week."

"I had a similar feeling about a bit of blood Toby was eyeing," Marcus said, his gray eyes searching the room for his heir. The dolt had wandered off a few minutes ago, and now there was no sign of him.

"How were you able to dissuade him?"

There he was, standing by The Icicle and her ward. Marcus raised a commanding eyebrow. "By pointing out the horse made him look like a fat child riding an undersized pony," he replied, frowning as Toby remained where he was. "He didn't think the image proper for a Corinthian."

Charlotte smiled in appreciation of Colford's guile. "Your heir fancies himself a Corinthian, does he?"

"That was last year. This year the fool thinks he's Byron," Marcus muttered, realizing that if he wished for Toby to meet Lady Bingingham, he'd have to fetch him himself. He turned to the duchess with an apologetic smile.

"Speaking of our budding poet, I can see him standing over there worshiping at the feet of his latest muse. With your permission, I will go and pry him free. I'll only be a moment." And he stalked off before Lady Bingingham could stop him.

". . . not spun gold; dashed cliché, that," Toby was saying as Marcus walked up behind him. "Besides, when was the last time anyone saw spun gold, I should like to know. No, I should liken your hair to sunlight, or yellow roses; fragile and lovely. I—"

"Toby!"

"What?" Toby gave a leap and whirled around, his look of alarm fading as he saw his elder cousin standing there. "I say, Colford, you did give me a start," he said, laying his hand over his wildly racing heart. "What the devil do you mean sneaking up on people like that? Dashed inconsiderate, if you ask me."

"Almost as inconsiderate as keeping a lady waiting," Marcus said, his anger hardly soothed by the look of cool annoyance he received from Miss Portham. "Lady Bingingham is waiting to make your acquaintance."

"Oh, is that why you was waggling your eyebrows at me?" Toby asked, turning back to the ladies. "My cousin is thinking of marrying her ladyship," he confided with a conspiratorial smile. "He wants her to meet me so she'll know there ain't no boobies in the family."

"If I wanted her ladyship to think that, then I would take very great care to see the two of you never met," Marcus retorted between clenched teeth. He knew the remark to be unkind in the extreme, but he'd been unable to help himself. There were times when Toby was so hopelessly thick, it would have taken a saint to have borne him, and a saint was something Marcus had never claimed to be.

"That was irony," Toby explained to the blonde. "I recognize it. It's a literary device Byron sometimes uses, but I—"

"Tobias!"

"Oh, very well." Toby sighed, capturing the girl's hand in his. "But first let me make you known to Miss Julia Dolitan. Miss Dolitan, this is m'cousin, Lord Marcus Wainwright, earl of Colford. Miss Dolitan is The Icicle's ward, Colford."

Toby's incautious use of Miss Portham's nickname in front of her made Marcus wince, and he vowed to have yet another word with him on the need for discretion. "Miss Dolitan"—he gave the young woman a stiff bow—"it is a pleasure to meet you. And Miss Portham, I am delighted to see you once more."

"Yes, I can see that you are," Belle drawled, amused at his discomfiture. It was obvious he found his dense heir a trial, and she took malicious pleasure in the knowledge. Good, she thought smugly, it served the arrogant devil right.

Marcus stiffened at the mocking note in her voice and the calculating sparkle in her gold-colored eyes. Why the devil was he fretting about her tender feelings? he wondered with a flash of irritation. It was obvious she had none. She was every bit the icicle he'd named her, and for a moment he was strongly tempted to tell her so. Unfortunately such an action would create a certain scandal and put an end to any hopes he had of winning the duchess. Swallowing his anger, he managed a cool smile.

"If you ladies will forgive me for being rude, I must introduce Toby to Lady Bingingham. She stopped by on her way to another party, but she is in something of a hurry." And without further ceremony, he dragged his heir off to meet the lady he hoped to make his bride.

"That went rather well, don't you think?" Georgiana asked, settling back with a sigh as their carriage pulled away from Almack's. "Didn't think it would, but it did."

"Of course it did," Belle said, exchanging a wink with Julia. "I told you I had everything well in hand."

"Maybe. But you know what the Holy Scriptures have to say about pride," the older woman retorted, unwilling to discount her throbbing ankle without a fight. "And we ain't safely home yet, you know. We could always be attacked by footpads."

" 'Hope springs eternal,' " Belle obliged, quoting Pope with a rare grin. The night had gone well, she thought, relief making her giddy. Much as she would rather die than admit it, she had been just the triflest bit uneasy. Georgiana's twinges did have an uncanny habit of preceding some calamitous event, and she'd been holding her breath in dreadful anticipation of some disaster striking the moment she dropped her guard. That they had survived the night intact was indeed an encouraging sign.

"And what are your thoughts of this evening, dearest?" she asked, shifting in her seat to study Julia's face. "Was Almack's everything you expected?"

"I suppose." To Belle's surprise, Julia gave an uninterested shrug. "I thought most of the people rather flat and full of themselves . . . except for Mr. Flanders, that is."

Belle, who had been about to congratulate her ward on her acuity, gazed at her in alarm. "Mr. Flanders?" she echoed, praying she'd misheard.

"The earl of Colford's heir," Julia provided, unaware of the effect her dreamy smile was having upon her mentor. "He is a poet, you know, and a most worthy gentleman. I quite liked him."

This couldn't be happening, Belle thought with growing horror. Of all the catastrophes she'd envisioned, she had never considered anything so vile as her ward becoming enamored of a member of Colford's family. She remembered Georgiana's prophetic ankle and bit back a hysterical laugh. Georgiana had merely said the wretched thing ached, she thought. If Julia was in love with Flanders, the wretched thing would have throbbed with agony.

"Colford's heir?" Georgiana was frowning in consideration. "He's not too bad, I suppose. Bit of a dolt, but I've always said it never does for a man to be too clever. I wouldn't count on his ever inheriting, though. Colford's young yet and will probably sire half a dozen sons before cocking up his toes."

"Oh, Tobias knows the title will never be his." Julia dismissed this objection with a laugh. "He says he doesn't want the bloody thing, and I must say I admire him the more for it."

"Julia!"

"Well, I do." Julia gave Belle an apologetic look. "As for my saying 'bloody,' I know I shouldn't have, but I was merely quoting Tobias. He says it all the time."

"All the time?" Belle wondered if she would have to lower herself to ask for Georgiana's smelling salts. "Do you mean to say you have met Mr. Flanders before now?"

"Of course not," Julia denied with a pretty laugh. "No, I merely meant that from the way he said it, I could tell it was a favorite expression of his. He apologized, of course, but I told him not to mind. You ought to hear some of the things Simon mutters."

"I can imagine," Belle said weakly, several pithy phrases occurring to her as she struggled for calm. "Julia, you can not really like Mr. Flanders," she said, deciding cool logic was the best approach. "Granted he is . . . er . . . a very handsome man, and it is not beyond credulity that you would be taken by him, but I assure you it is nothing more."

"You think Tobias handsome?" Julia sounded surprised. "How odd. I first thought him a plump, prosy bore." She sighed again. "At least until I saw his eyes. He has quite the loveliest eyes I've ever seen, as brown and rich as mahogany. And when I learned he was a poet, I knew I had misjudged him."

Hearing the note of girlish admiration in her voice, Belle wished she'd lowered her pride to ask for the smelling salts. She'd never felt more like swooning in her life, and the only thing that kept her from succumbing was the knowledge that she had to save her ward from the magnitude of her folly.

The carriage was slowing, and a quick glance out the window showed they were pulling to a halt in front of her home on Harrow Square. Clearly it was too late to do anything tonight, she decided, but first thing tomorrow morning, she meant to get started at once. There was no way on this earth she would allow any member of her family to enter into an alliance with that man's family. Colford might be an earl, but she herself was not without influence. If it came to daggers drawn, they would just see who emerged the victor.

Marcus spent the next morning holed up in his office as he went over his accounts. Selling off the last of his hunters had raised enough to pay his taxes, so he no longer had that threat hanging over his head. Now if he could just raise another five thousand pounds or so, he might make it through the next year without having to sell the clothes from his back, he thought, his mouth twisting in a bitter smile.

He was studying some ideas for investments he'd received that morning when Toby wandered in, his cravat lying half-tied about his throat. "I need a word that rhymes with rose," he said, throwing himself into the chair facing Marcus's desk. "Can't think of anything but toes, and it don't seem proper using such a word in a love poem."

"Toby, can't you see that I'm busy?" Marcus asked, cursing the necessity of having Toby live with him rather than putting him up in his own lodgings. "Go compose somewhere else."

" 'Compose'; that rhymes with rose." Toby hurriedly scratched it down. "Thank you, Colford. Anything else?"

"No, but if you don't leave this instant, they'll have to find a word to rhyme with 'strangled' when they carve your epitaph!"

" 'Mangled' might work," Toby suggested, laying a blunt finger on his lips. "Or 'dangled.' That would suggest hanging, and—"

"Toby" Marcus interrupted, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose, "I should hate the necessity of murdering you, but if you don't take yourself off, I am afraid you will leave me no other choice."

Toby hauled himself to his feet, his fleshy features assuming a look of outraged dignity. "There is no need to act the bully with me, sir," he said haughtily. "I only stopped by to wish you good morning. My apologies if I have disturbed you."

Marcus thrust an impatient hand through his auburn hair and uttered a curse beneath his breath. Damned if the young puppy didn't make him feel guilty, he thought, eyeing Toby's retreating form with resignation. And the devil of it was, he was right. He had no right to take his frustrations out on the other man.

"Toby, wait."

"Yes?" Toby paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"It is I who ought to be apologizing," Marcus admitted, rising to his feet. "I was wrong to snap at you like that, and I hope you will forgive me for my churlish behavior."

Toby hesitated, unwilling to give up his role of the persecuted artist, but in the end his own good nature won the day. "Certainly, my lord," he said, savoring the taste of magnanimity. "As a poet, I quite understand black moods and all that. No harm done, eh?"

"If you say so." Marcus was still feeling slightly ashamed. "Was there anything else you wished?"

"Well, now that you mention it, there is one favor I should like to ask of you," Toby admitted, sending Marcus a hopeful look. "I was to ride out with Cleves Barrowby this morning, but he had to cancel. Don't suppose you'd like to go with me?"

CONTENTS